


Remember This in Your Heart

by knittycat99



Category: Glee
Genre: Bullying, Coming Out, Dancing, Depression, Gen, Homophobia, Questioning, References to Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts, Talking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:35:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knittycat99/pseuds/knittycat99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermanth of Dave's suicide attempt, Kurt realizes some things about his friends and he starts a secret support group.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is dark in places. There's lots of talk of suicidal thoughts here, but there's also healing. Music credits throughout belong to the Indigo Girls.

**February 2012**

_released from circles guarded tight, now we all are chosen ones_

Kurt sat in Mr. Schue's circle, listening to what may have been the best teaching moment Mr. Schue had ever had, letting his gaze trip over all the other kids. He understood Puck's questions, knew why someone would doubt the truth of what Mr. Schue was telling them, because it seemed like something so  _small_. But he also saw Blaine, hands moving gently over the bare skin of his wrists, and the way Mike couldn't look at anybody, and felt his own body shift and curl.

Kurt knew Mr. Schue was right. Big or small, everyone had a moment, a breaking point.

Kurt had had plenty of them.

* * *

Blaine  _knew_ he was giving everything away. He was trying to sit still, trying to focus on what Mr. Schue was saying, not on the way Kurt was breaking across the circle, not on the urge he had to run his thumb over the soft inside of his wrist. So he sat with his hands balled up under his chin, and hoped nobody would notice the gentle up-and-down motion of his thumb.

* * *

Mike's heart was thudding in his chest, heavy and hard. It had been all day, since he'd first heard about Karofsky. He hadn't been able to explain to Tina why he suddenly felt like he couldn't breathe. Hadn't been able to look her in the eye at her gentle concern, and when Mr. Schue asked them to circle up on the stage, he hadn't been able to sit next to her. Instead, he settled next to Kurt.

He wasn't sure if that was for Kurt or for himself.

Puck's offhanded  _for cheating?_  dismissal of Mr. Schue's story made Mike's stomach flip. He  _knew_ what that felt like, being a disappointment. He'd spent his whole life hiding because he didn't want his father to see him that way. Even now, even after his dad started being more supportive of his dreams, Mike was still hiding.

Who he was.

What he wanted.

And most of all, the things he'd thought about doing when he hurt too much to get out of bed in the mornings.

He couldn't look at anyone, just sat there and stared at his hands in his lap.

He hoped nobody noticed.

* * *

"You okay?" Blaine's voice was low, and Kurt turned from his locker to meet Blaine's eyes.

"I think you already know the answer to that." Kurt didn't even try to hide his tears. It was pointless, they were just going to keep falling anyway.

"Yeah," Blaine said, taking his hand. "It's not your fault. You couldn't have stopped him. And I'll keep telling you that until you believe me."

Kurt yanked his hand away. "Don't you dare tell me you believe that crap. I  _could_ have. I could have been there for him. I could have answered my damn phone. I could have been a friend."

He slammed his locker closed and stalked up the hall. There were too many people around, too many eyes on him. He needed quiet and solace, and he wasn't going to get it in the hall. He let his gaze roam, seeking out an empty classroom or a quiet corner, and his tears just kept falling, splashing on his boots as he walked.

"Kurt!" Blaine tried to pull him close, but Kurt was so careful about them touching in public, he almost couldn't bear it.

"Just stop," he said. "Please. Just-  _please_  let me  _feel_  what I'm fucking  _feeling!_ " He wheeled on Blaine, felt his voice crack before he heard it. "Don't tell me I couldn't have stopped him, because I  _could_  have. I  _know_ it."

Blaine just tilted his head and looked at him. "You know."

"I  _know_ , Blaine. I could have stopped him. Because you stopped me." Kurt held his breath, waiting for Blaine to say something. To express surprise, or something, because they'd talked about a lot of things, but they'd never  _ever_  talked about  _this_.

Instead, Blaine tugged him into the empty, darkened choir room and pulled him into a tight hug. "You never said."

Kurt pulled away, wrapped his hand around Blaine's wrist, letting his thumb rest over the spot Blaine had been fussing at during Glee. "Neither did you."

* * *

It wasn't something Blaine  _ever_  talked about. Not with his parents, not even with his therapist, though she'd asked him frequently at the beginning. He was pretty sure he lost every therapy bonus point he'd ever earned by keeping such thoughts out of his file, but he kind of didn't care. It wasn't anybody's business but his own, something thought out in the battered pages of his journal, then torn out and burned before anyone could find them. He always figured that if he'd really been serious, he'd have left the pages, been  _less_ careful, let someone see and know.

If he'd really been serious, he would have gathered pills or razors. He would have actually  _had_ a plan, not just the messy jumble of darkness in his head that told him he couldn't take the words or the fists or his father's empty disapproval for even one more day.

If he'd really been serious, he wouldn't be here, in this hallway with Kurt. He wouldn't be happy. He wouldn't be in love. If he'd been serious, he wouldn't be anything because he'd have been dead at 14.

* * *

Mike's skin had been crawling all afternoon. Tina kept looking at him like she didn't see him, and that felt weird because they were always so in sync with each other. He couldn't stop thinking about Dave Karofsky, and how bad things must have really been in his head to actually go through with it. Because Mike had been some bad places, had felt trapped by his own thoughts and fears in the past few years, and even in the very darkest moments he'd held off, just in case the next day was better.

And now he had Tina, and the scraps of paper that had born witness to his awful moments had been shredded, or flushed, or tucked into his jeans and tossed into public trash cans all over Lima.

The dark times were  _his_ secret, and his alone.

Until he was wandering aimlessly from AP Chem to his locker after the last bell, and Kurt was quickly and silently in his space, voice low and intense.

"You understand, don't you," Kurt was asking, and Mike had to blink to make sure he was in the right moment.

"I don't-" he stammered, trying to get his thoughts under control.

"Dave. Mr. Schue.  _You understand_." Kurt was adamant, and once Mike took a long, hard look into his eyes, he knew he couldn't lie.

"Yeah," he sighed, leaning against a bank of lockers and closing his eyes. "I understand."

Kurt nodded once, solemnly. "Okay," he breathed. "Tonight, 8 pm, the fire circle at Faurot Park. You  _need_ to be there, Mike."

Mike let his head loll back. He really didn't want to deal with any of this today. He was inexplicably exhausted, and he just wanted to go home and hide for a little while before meeting Tina for dinner with her family. "I don't know, Kurt. I have plans."

"This is important.  _Promise me_." Kurt's tone was almost desperate, so Mike just sighed and nodded.

"Fine. I'll be there."

Kurt was gone as quickly and silently as he'd shown up, disappeared somewhere in the moments it took Mike to center himself back to the school hallway.

Now he  _really_ wanted to hide, because apparently he wasn't as invisible as he'd always thought.

* * *

Kurt let Blaine carry the wood to the fire circle while he took the blankets, but he didn't let Blaine start the fire. "Do you even know how?" he asked, taking the matches playfully from between Blaine's fingers.

"No," Blaine said. "Where would I learn how to do that?"

"I take it you weren't in Scouts."

"And you were?" Blaine's voice slid up into surprise.

"I was, for two years. After my mom died it was too much." Kurt crouched down and arranged the logs inside the ring of rocks. "But I learned how to make a mean fire," he said with a smirk. "It's fun to surprise people."

Blaine was warm behind him, his arms tight around Kurt's waist, and Kurt half-wished that it was just the two of them, that the evening was going to be a romantic one. He wished he'd answered Dave's calls. He wished lots of things, and more than anything he needed to talk about all of it with people who understood.

He poked at the fire, adding bits of twigs and newspaper until the flames were high and blazing hot. "I like fire," he said, leaning back against Blaine.

"Why? It takes. It destroys." Blaine opened his limbs to wrap them around Kurt, and Kurt settled there, warm and safe.

"Only if you don't mind it, forget to take care of it." He rested the back of his head against Blaine's shoulder. "Sometimes it feels like my heart."

"What feels like your heart?" A soft voice drifted over from behind them.

Kurt sat up, turning in Blaine's arms to see Mike shuffling awkwardly behind them.

"Fire," Kurt replied, angling his head to the blaze in the fire ring. "I'm glad you're here," he added, with a soft sigh. He'd been afraid that Mike was going to bail, which would have made this whole thing pointless. "Come sit."

"What's this all about, anyway?" Mike settled, cross-legged, next to he and Blaine, and wrapped his arms around himself.

"Dave," Kurt said, "and all of us. Because whether we meant to go through with it or not, we've all been where Dave was yesterday. We all thought about it. And I don't know about you guys, but I feel pretty lost right now."

"How did you know? I mean," Mike said, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket, "Tina doesn't even know."

"Because everyone else looked like they didn't understand Mr. Schue today, but you looked like you wanted to disappear." Kurt fixed Mike with an even stare, and something about the way Mike looked, anxious eyes darting from the fire to his own hands, to the spots where Kurt and Blaine were touching, clicked something in Kurt's mind.

"Is there- um. Is there something else going on, Mike?" Kurt wanted to reach out, put a hand on Mike's knee, but they had never been close like that, so he held back.

Mike shook his head. "Just lots of things nobody knows. None of it is important."

"Yes, it is," Blaine spoke up. "If it's in your head, it's important. And I think that's Kurt's whole point here, that the three of us together is safe."

Mike looked away, at the stick-shadows of the bare trees, the moon, the bright flame of the fire.

"I'm bisexual," he said, finally, and he crumbled.

Kurt knew it should have been him, moving to help, but instead it was Blaine who was there, catching Mike and holding him up.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how much to put in this note without spoiling things. But I will say these things: "Voa voa" is Portuguese for "grandmother" (though I couldn't tell you the proper pronunciation because my limited Portuguese is always spoken with a broad Rhode Island accent). Chourico is a Portuguese sausage not unlike Mexican chorizo, but it's a lot milder than its Mexican counterpart. Sweet bread is a light, yeasty, eggy (and yes, sweet) breakfast bread; mostly it's served plain, but at Easter you can get it with a whole egg braided into the design and baked with the bread. Malasadas are pieces of yeast dough, fried and coated with sugar. They're not the same as funnel cake. The closest I've had since leaving New England was fry bread, to give y'all a reference point. They're delicious, and you can get them at church feasts and festivals in my hometown. 
> 
> Thanks to nubianamy for watching me write this like a madwoman, for asking all the right questions and for all that you are, every day. You make my writing that much better.
> 
> This is my headcanon for Mike. We're given so little about him, and I always had the feeling there was so much more to him. Enjoy.

Mike felt arms arms around him, the strength of a body holding him up. He'd halfway expected that when finally broke it would be Kurt there, but the compactness of the other person told him it was Blaine.

"How long have you known?" Blaine's voice was edged with curiosity, and Mike knew that if he chose not to answer then Blaine wouldn't push, because he was that kind of a guy.

"My first kiss was a boy," he sighed, swiping at his eyes to banish the tears. "Sometimes it feels like a lifetime ago."

He felt Kurt move in closer, felt one of his knees rest against Mike's. "Do you want to talk about it?" Kurt asked gently, and even though Mike kind of didn't, because the crisp edges of the memory were fading all the time and he didn't want to lose the sharpness of it by sharing it with anyone else, he knew he had to.

His secret truth was killing him.

He took a deep breath, and curled himself impossibly smaller into the warmth of Blaine's body.

* * *

**Sixth Grade**

Mike had wanted dance lessons for years, but his father didn't approve and there was no way his mom was going to go behind his dad's back, at least not for something like  _that._ But then his mom decided he needed to do things other than come home to his books every day after school, so she signed him up for the rec center after school program.

As a middle schooler, he got to choose any activity he wanted.

He went to his first dance class with shaking hands, sure that he was going to be the only beginner  _and_  the only boy. But there was another boy there, tiny but  _fast_  in his baggy basketball shorts and sneakers. Mike tried not to stare at the way he moved, comfortable with the music  _and_  with his body. He tried not to look too hard every time the boy ( _Tony_ , the teacher called him) scampered off to the soccer fields the instant class was over. He was graceful there, too.

Mike was very careful  _not_ to talk to him. He was still getting his feet under him after moving up North over the summer for his dad's job. The rules were new here, but he kind of liked it better. He was still one of the only Asian kids at his school, but the halls were a sea of color and language that felt familiar, even though it was Spanish and Portuguese instead of Mandarin. All that mattered was that, for once, he wasn't the only bilingual kid, or the only one who hadn't even spoken English until Kindergarten.

He hoped that it was being the new kid that marked him as different, rather than being Chinese.

So he kept his distance from Tony, always afraid to make the first move in a friendship. He hoped if he waited then Tony would come to him.

It happened the week before Halloween, Mike's mom late to pick him up and Tony the last straggler off the soccer field. He dropped onto the bench outside the rec center next to Mike, letting his backpack and an overstuffed duffle bag hit the pavement with a thud. He rooted in his backpack for something, and held out an applesauce container and a spoon.

"You want some?" he asked, fiddling with the granola bar in his other hand.

Mike shook his head. "Thanks, but I don't like applesauce."

"Granola bar, then?" Tony pushed the shiny package across the bench.

"Sure," Mike shrugged. "Thanks."

He watched Tony tear the foil top off his applesauce and dig in with his spoon. "You're really good, in class," he said to Mike between bites.

"Not as good as you."

"Yeah," Tony shrugged. "But you're new. I've been dancing forever."

"Really." Mike had never met another boy who danced before.

"Yeah. This is only for fun, and if my teacher found out I'd be dead because we're not supposed to take other classes." He turned his attention to scraping the sides of the container.

"Why would she care? Isn't dancing  _dancing_?" Mike didn't understand. It was all movement and music. What was the big deal?

Tony shook his head. "It's bad for our knees and ankles, or something. Or I could get hurt and not be able to perform. I'm really not sure. But I do know that if you get caught breaking the rules, you don't get cast in the good parts. Or at least that's what happens with the older girls." He shrugged, and looked sideways at Mike. "It might not matter for me, because there are never enough boys."

"What kind of dance is it?"

Tony's light brown skin blushed hot pink from the collar of his shirt to his hair. "Ballet," he said, kind of softly but not ashamed.  
"Cool," Mike said with a nod. "Doesn't your dad care? Mine doesn't even know I'm taking  _this_ class."

Tony shook his head. "My dad thinks it will help with my soccer. Or, that's what my mom told him. I guess . . ." Tony's voice trailed off, and he shrugged slighly. "As long as he doesn't find out that I like ballet better, it'll be fine."

They sat together until a slightly battered, older model Buick squeaked to a stop in front of the rec center. A gray-haired woman rolled down the window and tilted her head out. "Tonio, your mama had to work late. We'll take you to your lesson."

"Okay,  _vo_ _á_ _vo_ _á_." He turned and waved to Mike. "My grandparents," he said, shouldering his backpack and duffel. "See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah." Mike smiled, and tried not to listen when Tony's grandmother peppered him with questions about  _your little friend_ through the open car window.

* * *

After that, Tony started skipping out on soccer after dance class, instead settling into one of the long tables next to Mike and tackling his homework.

"I have rehearsals now," he said one afternoon as they shared a stack of graham crackers.

"Rehearsals for what?" Mike slid his pencil over his paper, working speedily through his pre-algebra.

"Nutcracker," Tony said. "I'm a party guest this year, which means I actually get to dance. Last year was my first, and I was a soldier." He shook his head. "All I did was stand there, and it kind of sucked."

"Hard not to move, when there's music." Or at least it was for Mike. He wanted to move all the time, feel the music deep in his bones, flowing through him. But he was too afraid of his father and the stern looks he got for being interested in anything that wasn't academic-related.

"Yeah," Tony sighed, turning his math book around and nudging Mike with his shoulder. "You're so much better at this than I am. Help?"

Mike talked Tony through the problem, and then they both went back to their own work, silent and focused until a familiar voice was calling out from the doorway.

"Tonio! We're gonna be late, baby." Tony's grandmother waved at them, and smiled at Mike. "Hello, Michael."

"Hello, Mrs. Faria," he said, waving back.

"You're too skinny, Michael. You come home with Tonio one night, we'll feed you. Good Portuguese food."

"Tell her yes," Tony whispered as he stuffed his math book into his backpack. "She likes cooking."

"That'd be great, Mrs. Faria," he said. "I'll ask my mom."

"Good boy," she replied to him even as she wrapped Tony up into a hug.

* * *

Tony's house was different from his own. It was comfortably clean where Mike's was practically sterile. The furniture was kind of worn, the carpet looked like something left over from the really old Brady Bunch episodes he'd liked to watch when English was still foreign on his tongue, and it smelled like floral soap and a hint of mothballs and warm baked pastry.

" _Vo_ _á_ _vo_ _á_ made cake," Tony exclaimed as he led Mike through the downstairs and up a small flight of stairs to his room. "Marble. It's her best cake, especially when it's warm."

Mike had never had marble cake. His mother's only concession to the Americanization of his birthday had always been store-bought yellow cake with white frosting. Boring, as tasty as cardboard, and nothing like the chocolate cakes or ice cream cakes he'd had at friends' parties. He just supposed he was lucky that he got cake at all.

"Okay," Mike said, taking in the walls of Tony's bedroom, which were plastered glossy pictures of dancers cut from magazines. "Where did you get these?"

"Oh! This girl in my class, she gets  _Dance Magazine_ and she saves them all for me. Do you know a lot about dance?"

"No," Mike shook his head. "Only that I want to do it all the time."

Tony flopped across his bed, feet dangling off one side and and his head upside down on the other side. "Me, too," he said. "More than anything. It's just . . . nobody from here ever goes  _anywhere._ Even the girls in my classes, the other people in the company, they just stay here forever. My teacher thinks I should try to go to Boston for their summer program."

"What's in Boston?" Mike really didn't know. They'd only lived in Massachusetts since July, and even if they left their town, it was to go 15 minutes over the border into Providence.

"Boston Ballet," Tony said with an exasperated sigh. "Going there would be better than trying for New York. I mean, I'm sure I will, try for New York. When I'm older." He rolled onto his stomach and stretched, arcing his back and bending his knees, touching his feet to the back of his head.

"You're like an acrobat or something," Mike said in awe. He was nowhere near that flexible, and really couldn't boast about anything related to his dancing other than that he could keep time with the music and he wasn't afraid of falling.

"I can teach you, if you want." Tony relaxed back onto the bed and looked at Mike seriously, then. "Ballet. You need to know at least a little, if you really want to dance, and your dad sure isn't going to pay for lessons."

"Hell, no," Mike said, and caught himself. He  _never_ cursed, but he heard the kids at school do it all the time, and he liked the freedom of being with Tony, not having to censor anything about himself. "He doesn't even know I'm doing the rec center class. I would . . ." He thought about Tony's offer, about how nice it would be to spend time together doing something they both loved. "I would love to learn."

"Good," Tony said, launching himself from the bed. "C'mon, let's go see if dinner is ready."

* * *

Mike came to learn that for the Faria family, food was love. After Tony's Nutcracker performance, there were heaping bowls of clear-brothed soup studded with beans, potato, cabbage, spinach, and chunks of a delicious spicy sausage.

"Chourico," Mrs. Faria told him when he'd asked, and he watched her sop up her leftover broth with a hunk of buttered Italian bread. "You like it, Michael?"

"Yes, Ma'am," he said, tentatively dipping a corner of his own bread into his bowl. The bread was soft, the broth a little salty, the butter sweet. It was texture and flavor and warmth, and Mike wanted to cry because he'd never once felt like a guest in this house.

The first Tuesday in March, Mrs. Faria had a brown paper bag dotted with grease when she picked Tony up. " _Malasadas_ ," she said, the word falling off her tongue, guttural and odd-sounding to Mike's ears. "Warm from the fryer. Go ahead," she urged, and Mike opened the bag to the fragrance of warm yeast and oil and sugar.

"We have them the last day before Lent _,_ " Tony told him as he carefully tore a corner off one of the pastries. The inside was soft and chewy, the outside crispy, and the granules of sugar crunched lightly between his teeth. "It's delicious," he mumbled through chewing. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Michael." Mrs. Faria smiled at him, and pulled him in close for a hug of his own before hustling Tony into the car.

On Good Friday, there was bread, a small round loaf with a whole egg nestled into the top under criss-crossed strips of dough. " _Vo_ _á_ _vo_ _á_ really likes you," Tony whispered conspiratorially as Mike tucked the loaf into his backpack. "She doesn't give a sweet bread to just anybody."

But Mike didn't feel special at all, not even after he got his afternoon hug from Mrs. Faria. Not even after she sighed into his ear and told him he was a good boy and a good friend to _her Tonio_.

* * *

Spring came early, that year. Soccer started once the fields were dry enough, but Tony never went back to playing. Instead, he and Mike spent the time after dance class in the small studio, Tony coaching Mike through the basics of ballet. It wasn't perfect, but it was something.

"Our church feast is this weekend," Tony said from down around Mike's ankles. He was trying, for the millionth time, to contort Mike's feet into fifth position. "You should come."

"What's a feast?" Mike really didn't get the way churches were here. It was serious in a different way from all the Christian kids in Dallas.

"A celebration of our church's saint. There's a parade and stuff, but the best part is the festival." He peered up at Mike, his eyes sparkling. "It's like a carnival, and you should come."

"Okay," Mike agreed, and so Saturday found him milling around the crowded parking lot at Tony's church, feeling really out of place.

Tony's mom bought them little books of tickets for food and games, so they played skeet ball and ring toss and Tony made Mike try a chourico and pepper sandwich, which had been delicious. There was a band singing in Portuguese, and grandmothers chasing after little kids, and sometime close to dusk it became too much for Mike.

"Is there anywhere quiet?" he asked Tony, tugging him behind the dunking booth to just escape the press of people around him.

"You okay?"

Mike shook his head. "Too much noise. Too many people." It had been a long time since he'd felt that way, like another look or touch or word was going to break him. He hadn't felt that way since meeting Tony.

"Wait here," Tony said, darting out into the crowd. He was back minutes later, two warm  _malasadas_ wrapped in wax paper in his hands. He shoved one at Mike. "Eat this. And walk with me."

He led Mike through the crowd, over to a door set in the side of the church. The hall was dim and a little musty, and he waited while Tony tried a series of doors until one snicked open. A tiny table with four little chairs was in the middle of the room, and the walls were edged with a low shelf and lots of plastic toys. "I thought you were having fun," he said, settling cross-legged on the floor and tearing into his pastry.

"I was. I am." Mike dropped to the floor next to Tony and let their knees touch. "It's just-"

"What?" Tony looked at him with concern.

"My dad." He tried to find the words he'd been choking on all day, the news his parents had shared over dinner the night before. "He got another transfer. We're moving in August."

"Where?" Tony sounded sad.

"Ohio."

"Oh." Mike watched as Tony fiddled with the hem of his shorts. "I got a letter today."

"Okay."

"From Boston Ballet. I got into their summer program. Scholarship and everything," Tony grinned a halfhearted grin. "Eight weeks, starting the week after school gets out."

Now it was Mike's turn to be sad. "Oh." He ran a hand through his hair. "Congratulations. I'm-" he swallowed around the lump in his throat. "I'm really happy for you."

"Yeah?" Tony looked surprised.

"It's your dream," Mike said. "You deserve it."

"Thanks." Tony reached his hand out and touched barely his fingertips to Mike's, but Mike shivered anyway.

"I'm going to miss you," Mike admitted, "but I'll email every day."

"I'd like that," Tony said, leaning closer over their legs, his hand on Mike's arm then.

Mike closed his eyes. He was a little scared, and a little happy, and really not surprised at all when Tony finally,  _finally_ kissed him. Just a peck, both of their lips sugary from pastry, in the darkness of the church nursery.

* * *

Tony went to Boston for the summer, and Mike moved to Lima. He held tight to the things he'd realized about himself at 12, never uttered a word. Held onto his dreams of dancing. Stifled everything about himself, until the day Kurt Hummel had led them all in a dance on the football field. That dance, in those lights, unlocked every secret desire Mike had ever had, and he'd gone home after the game and sent a late night email to Tony.

_I could breathe again,_ he'd typed.

_You know what to do_  had been Tony's equally late night reply, and they'd ended up on IM until 3 am, until Tony begged off saying  _I have to go to bed for at least a little or I'll be worthless in class_.

But the IM had pinged one last time before Mike managed to settle into bed, and he read Tony's words with a thudding heart.

_I love you, Mike_

Mike didn't reply,  _couldn't_  reply, because he didn't know what to say.  _I love you, too_ seemed completely inadequate for a relationship that had been maintained exclusively via electronics for four years, even it it was probably the truth. So he swallowed it down, and joined Glee club, and hoped to forget the way it had felt, that night long ago, kissing Tony.

Falling in love with Tina had been seamless and easy, and Mike thought that maybe he'd been mistaken, at twelve. He thought a lot of things, after falling in love with Tina. He thought that he could dream big, again, he thought that he could be happy.

* * *

"But you weren't? Happy?" Blaine asked, shifting slightly.

"I thought I was. And then we went to Nationals."

"What happened at Nationals?" Kurt's hand was gentle on Mike's shoulder.

"Tony was there. He's in New York now, got a scholarship to the Joffrey school. He's so talented, but he's not tall enough for City Ballet, and Joffrey does all kinds of interesting things, not just the classical stuff." He knew he was heading into the territory that made most people's eyes glaze over with regards to dance, so he focused back onto the rest of the story. "Anyway. We went out, the night Finn took Rachel on that date."

They had walked through the heart of the city, and Tony had taken Mike for cheap and delicious Italian food, and then they'd taken the subway down to Battery Park, coming up into the dark of the evening at the edges of the 9/11 memorial. They'd sat on a bench and people-watched, and talked around their plans for the future.

"You should come here, after graduation," Tony had encouraged, their shoulders pressed together. "It's not too late, for you to dance."

"It's too late for everything," Mike sighed. "My father will never let me."

"What else?" Tony asked, his thumb soft and tentative on the back of Mike's hand.

"I'm with Tina now. I love her."

"I know that," Tony said softly. "But you love me, too. I  _know_ you do."

Mike shook his head. "I do. But I can't."

"Why not?" Tony was always pushing, a little reckless that way.

"Because I'm not supposed to. And I'm not-"

"What?" Tony stood, turned to face Mike. "You're not gay?"

"No." Mike knew he wasn't gay, because he loved Tina. "Not gay. But-"

"God," Tony sighed, frustrated. "You're so repressed. So you're not gay. Fine. But you can't tell me you love me in one breath and deny yourself in the next. It's okay to be who you are."

"This was a mistake," Mike said, rising from the bench, body primed to run. But Tony was there, hand on his wrist and the other in his hair, tugging him close and kissing him again. For real, this time, no twelve year old innocence holding them back. And Mike was kissing him back, the city close and noisy around them with the Statue of Liberty at their backs.

"Oh, Mike," Kurt sighed. "What happened next?"

"Nothing." It was kind of the truth, and not completely a lie; there were the parts he wanted to keep for himself, more kissing and roaming hands and the two of them, pressed together in Tony's too-small bed, door locked and his roommate knocking to be let in. "We email and IM, and he helped me pick some conservatory programs to apply to. That's about it, because I'm with Tina. But I still love him," he said, stunned with how easily the words passed his lips. "I don't know what will happen, after this year."

"Could you-" Blaine cleared his throat. "Um. Could you be in the same place next year?

"He won't know anything until his workshop performance in June. He could get offered a spot with Joffrey, or another company somewhere else." Mike knew that Tony wanted to go to Boston, if he could, because his grandmother's health was bad and he really wanted to be with his family.

_But I'm not going to turn down a spot someplace else_ , he'd told Mike the week before, peering into his webcam as Mike opened fat envelopes from Tisch, Boston Conservatory, and Juilliard.

"Have you thought about telling Tina?" Mike knew Kurt was trying not to pry. He'd been thinking the same thing for weeks, especially now that graduation was coming fast. Graduation, and another trip to New York for Nationals.

"I need to," Mike said through sudden tears. "I think-" he stood, brushing leaves and dried grass and dirt from his jeans. "God. I think I need to tell her tonight."

He was fumbling for his keys, darting towards the parking lot as Kurt called after him. "Mike! Wait!"

But Mike felt driven, then, a little lighter from the first telling, and he hoped that he'd be able to get through it with Tina. Hoped she wasn't going to leave him, because he was pretty sure that being alone would be worse than living a lie.

* * *

Tina was working her way through the backlog of Criminal Minds episodes on the DVR when the doorbell rang. She bolted to the door, hoping it was Mike because he'd been acting weird all day and his phone had been going straight to voicemail for the past two hours, and it wasn't like him to not call her back.

"Hey," she said, opening the door to him. "You okay?"

He was kind of slumped against the doorframe, and when he slid into the living room she could tell he'd been crying.

"No. Not okay." He shook his head, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Come on," she said, taking his hand and leading him to the couch. She pulled a fleece blanket off the back and wrapped it around his shoulders. "Do you want tea?"

"No. I need-" he took a shaky breath. "I need to tell you something."

"O-okay." Tina didn't want to speculate, because she knew Mike had been stressed out with college acceptances coming back, and the choreography he and Brittany were working on for Nationals, and his AP exams coming up fast.

"I'm- um. I'm." He paused, took a breath. "I don't want to hurt you, or scare you away. But I need to tell you. I'm-  _bisexual_." He barely whispered the last word, and Tina took his hand and leaned back against the couch.

She thought about Lucy, the way she sang at campfire every night for the three summers they'd gone to camp together. The way her ponytail left wet spots on the back of her shirt on the walk from the lake to the pottery shed. The way Lucy would climb over the rafters from her top bunk in the 13 year old cabin onto Tina's top bunk in the 14 year old cabin, every night after lights out, and they would lay side by side, talking late into the night.

About the way they'd kissed, not by the backstop where the other kids went, but by the rock at the top of the lake path on the last night of Tina's last year of camp, bug spray and woodsmoke, and Lucy's guitar-calloused fingers soft on Tina's cheek.

The letters they still sent, pages and pages stuffed into envelopes.  _There's still nobody like you, T,_  Lucy's last letter had said.  _I know you're with Mike, but I'll always love you_.

There were lots of things Tina could have said to Mike, but the first thing that came to her head, that left her mouth was  _Thank God. So am I._


	3. Chapter 3

_we act empty and innocent but we are fueled by distortions, of lives led in discontent trading misfortunes_

"Where were you tonight?" Tina rested her head against Mike's chest, and pulled her blanket up over them both; she felt really lucky, that her parents trusted her to have Mike in her room. That they trusted  _Mike_ to be in her room.

But her parents also knew that they'd been having sex since the summer; her mom had even taken her to buy condoms, before the first time, and they talked all the time about how things were going, especially now that graduation and Mike leaving were coming up so fast.

Her mom even knew about Lucy, about Tina being bi. Compared to the sex talk,  _that_ admission had been easy.

Mike sighed under her ear. He felt . . .  _fragile_ , like something had happened before he'd shown up on her doorstep. "I was out. With Kurt and Blaine."

"Are they okay? They both seemed pretty wrecked."

"Yeah," Mike choked out. "I don't think Mr. Schue's thing helped at all."

Tina slid out from under his arm and sat up, tucking her legs under her. She leveled him with a stare. "I don't think Mr. Schue's thing helped  _you_ at all. What's going on? Why were you out with Kurt and Blaine?"

"Kurt thought it might be easier, if we all had a chance to talk outside of school. Be supportive of each other, because we all understand."

Tina tried to pick up the loose ends of what Mike  _wasn't_ saying. "Understand why Dave tried, you mean."

"Yeah."

"Because . . . because you tried?" She was shaking, scared about this part of Mike she'd never known about, but she  _had_ to know now.

Mike shook his head. "I never tried," he whispered, "but I thought about it a lot. Before you."

"How did I change things?" Tina needed to know like she needed air, because she never felt like anything particularly special. She was just a weird girl who sometimes got stuck all up inside herself, who sometimes went quiet and lonely even in a room full of people.

"You never needed me to be anything. You just wanted me to be me." Mike pulled her back down against him, and she snuggled in with a happy sigh.

"Do you want to tell me about the boy? The one you love?" There would be plenty of time to talk about the other stuff; Tina wanted a happy story, tonight.

"Only if you tell me about the girl  _you_ love." Tina felt a blush rise on her cheeks.

"I don't know if I  _love_ Lucy," she said. "I mean, we only kissed once."

Mike poked her in her ribs, that spot he  _knew_ made her collapse on herself with giggles. "Sometimes once is all it takes," he said, once she'd stopped laughing. "His name is Tony, and he's a dancer."

* * *

Tina was leaning against Kurt's locker when he got there, arms crossed in front of her chest and a serious look on her face.

"T," he said, reaching out to hug her.

"I want in," she said, hugging back.

"In on . . .  _what_ , exactly?" Because he didn't know how much Mike had talked about anything with Tina last night. All he knew was that he'd slept like shit, and ended up spending half the night on the phone with Blaine, because he couldn't get Dave out of his head.

"Whatever your secret little group is that broke my boyfriend."

"We didn't- I mean-"

"I'm teasing, dork." She bumped him with her shoulder. "You didn't break him, but I still want in."

Kurt tilted his head at her, and looked at her hard. "I'm sorry," he said after a long moment. "If I'd realized, I'd have invited you last night."

But Tina just shook her head. "I haven't- I mean, I never  _thought_ about it, not like you guys."

Kurt leaned back against the locker next to his. "He told you."

"He told me about  _himself._ Everything that he told you guys last night, and probably some things he didn't." Tina reached out and patted Kurt on his forearm, her touch warm over his shirt sleeve. "I may have never thought about it, but I know what it feels like to feel lost, Kurt. And I want in on whatever you guys are doing."

"It's just talking, really. We'll be at Blaine's tonight, his parents will be down in Columbus for some benefit. Just-"

Tina squeezed his arm, and nodded knowingly. "I won't say a word," she whispered. "Thank you."

Something about the look on her face made Kurt wrap her up in another hug. "You're welcome."

* * *

Blaine made a cake when he got home from school. He knew it was only Kurt and Mike ( _and Tina,_ Kurt had whispered in the hall after Glee), but he always felt like baking when he was freaking out, and he really needed to keep busy or he thought he might implode. So he pulled out his mother's old Betty Crocker cookbook, and flipped through the pages to the cake section. He loved the old-fashioned 1950's pencil drawings of perfect desserts and perfect housewives, and the helpful hints and serving suggestions. He loved that this was a cookbook that had been used and loved, not just by his mother, but by his aunt and his grandmother as well.

He thought about making a simple cake, chocolate or vanilla, but when he started digging in the freezer for the unsalted butter, a bag of frozen peach slices fell onto his toe. He'd sliced and peeled them back in the fall, juice running down his hands, thinking of pie in December. But Christmas had been a patented Anderson family fiasco, and he'd gradually started spending more and more time at Kurt's house. The peaches stayed in the freezer, the cookbook sat on the shelf over the counter.

And Blaine had stopped itching to bake.

Then Miss Pillsbury had pulled Kurt out of second period the day before, and when he'd come back to class his hands were shaking and he looked pale and shattered, and Blaine had _almost_ grabbed his backpack and run to the home ec room, just to lose himself in the scent of baking butter and sugar.

Instead, he'd waited until the bell and pulled Kurt into the empty choir room, and spent all of third period holding him, telling him it wasn't his fault,he couldn't have done anything. That they hadn't failed Dave.

But Blaine knew the truth; they  _had_ failed Dave. Blaine had done it himself that day last year when he had cornered Dave in the stairwell, and every time he'd held Kurt's arm just a little tighter and steered him a little further away from Dave. Because Kurt may have forgiven him, may have trusted him, may have even started to think of him as a friend, but Blaine was never going to see Dave as anything but a terrified, closeted bully. He had failed Dave, and he kind of hated himself for it.

He tossed the peaches into the microwave to thaw, and just stared at the turntable going around and around.

He hated feeling like a failure.

When the microwave beeped, he pulled the bag out and drained the peaches before setting butter and sugar on low in the mixer.

Apparently it didn't matter  _who_ he'd failed. Dave, his father. Himself. He was never going to be anything more than a world-class fuck-up. Failure extraordinaire. Some days he wondered how and why Kurt never seemed to see him that way. Maybe he just hid himself well enough that it didn't matter.

Either way, there was no way to fix it. He just had to find a way forward. And today, it was going to be with a peach coffee cake.

* * *

Kurt was early, like always. Blaine was setting out plates and coffee cups, exactly the same way his mother did when she hosted Junior League, and he had to shake his head at a slightly startling visual of himself, fully grown and playing society househusband. It was . . . frightening, in part because that wasn't anything he wanted for himself and yet, he couldn't help feeling like it was the one thing he'd be really good at. He kept working, eyes down, fanning napkins on the table and arranging the silverware from tall knives to short teaspoons.

He laughed bitterly to himself as he heard Kurt open the back door; he was always a disappointment to his father, but maybe now at least he'd manage to please his  _mother_.

"Hey," Kurt said, padding over to him after leaving his shoes on the mat by the door. "What's this? Smells really good."

"Coffee cake. I needed . . ." Blaine waved his hand in the air. "Had to get out of my head." Kurt's arms were warm and firm around his waist and Kurt's body felt so good pressed against his back. Even though the kitchen was still warm from the heat of the oven, Blaine found that he was shivering.

"What's wrong, Blaine?" Kurt's voice was soft and tender, but questioning in a way that made Blaine feel entirely too exposed.

"N-nothing." Blaine tapped at the bottom of the knives to line them up, even though they were  _just fine_.

Kurt's hand was firm on his wrist. "Hey. Blaine.  _Look_ at me."

He let Kurt turn him so they were facing, and Blaine didn't have to look to know that Kurt was all clucking and sympathetic. "Okay. It's okay. Whatever's going on. It's . . ."

"No," Blaine shook his head. "It's not  _okay_. It's not  _going_  to be okay, because what's wrong is  _me._ "

He wanted to fight against Kurt's arms, his gentle voice, the soothing way he was talking and the motion of his hand up and down the length of Blaine's back, but the comfort felt too good.  _Letting go_ felt too good.

"You're not wrong, Blaine." Kurt sounded so sure, so confident. "You're just right."

* * *

"You've been here before," Tina said as Mike navigated the maze of streets into Blaine's subdivision. "I didn't realize."

Mike shrugged. "He's one of the guys. We take turns, hosting game night." Mike  _didn't_  tell Tina that the only nights Blaine  _went_ to game nights were when it was his turn to host, or that Mike only went when it was his own turn or Blaine's.

"Right.  _Game_ night. Is that like 'makeover' night?" Tina laughed lightly.

"An excuse to eat snacks and complain about our significant others, you mean?" Mike was under no illusions about makeovers actually happening at makeover night, because at best Tina showed up at school the next day with only one hands' worth of fingers sloppily covered in blue or black polish.

Tina turned in her seat to look at him. "Don't tell the others I spilled the beans. We should all be allowed our illusions."

"No worries. My lips are sealed." He turned onto Blaine's street, and Tina sat up.

"Nice houses."

"Yeah," Mike sighed. "It comes at a price, though."

"What do you mean?" Tina peered at him quizzically as he pulled into the Anderson's generous driveway behind Blaine's station wagon.

"You'll see," Mike said softly, turning off the car and moving quickly to get over to Tina's door before she could open it. "Here," he said, pulling the door open and holding out his hand for her.

She smiled at him. He  _loved_  how fiercely and freely she loved him, and how unafraid she was of showing her affections in public. Mike sometimes felt like he'd never catch up to her there, that he'd always struggle with how to be anything even close to open about  _anything_ in his life.

He knocked on the front door, and held Tina close while they waited for Blaine to answer the door.

But Kurt opened it instead. "Hey," he said softly. "C'mon. We're in the kitchen."

"Everything okay?" Tina put her hand on Kurt's arm, and he shook his head at her.

"No, but I'll let Blaine explain. He's got a lot of story to tell."

 


End file.
